Dear Assfaces,
I am going to write a poem for every day in Septiembre. I dare you to not dare me to even think about doing so. Some serious shit is about to go down. I wish someone would give me some ideas about what to write. I have had one more good idea:
Coffee Sex
This is the last good idea I will have all of this month. So, give me yours and tell me what to write about. Otherwise, this could all turn to shit. Thank you and goodnight!
XII
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Rejects and Forgot-Abouts
Handsome Devil
by Benjamin Morgan
Save a place for me baby
I'm going to end up in hell
But I'm not sure what it means
To be an asshole anymore
Is it just thinking thoughts that bother you?
If I act on a thought
Does that make me an asshole?
If I just think something
Maybe even dwell on it
Does that make me an asshole?
Is what I can imagine
Or what I act upon
The true judge of moral character
Pornography Explained
by Benjamin Morgan
I've got some really messed up words and thoughts
About your firm, round apples and their stems
I can see them through your shirt
I want you to be glad that I am looking
Rip your shirt open and offer me a basket of apples
I get pretty messed up sometimes thinking
Almost all the time about being supplicated
In the computer age
It looks like every woman is horny
They all have an unquenchable thirst to service me
I want to figure out how to separate from fiction
It's too confusing sometimes to know
How easy it is to lose my virginity
Did I have a chance before
Have I turned down a girl who would fuck me
Who is even interested anyways nowadays with me
I hate that even one look or touch is an explosion
Triggers days or months of thoughts
Explicit acts to fuel my angry hands
I think they see it in my eyes and turn away in shame
One if By Phone
by Benjamin Morgan
Hey.
Are you there?
I've been breathing into the phone.
I am just trying to talk to you.
Hey, what was that?
Don't give me any of that guff.
I'm a timebomb.
I am a hotplate turned up to 10.
Hey.
Are you my lover?
I can't speak the language of your body.
I spoke mispronunciations into your ear.
Hey.
Are you still holding on?
Let go of the building ledge.
Go ahead and see if those angels catch you.
The Cycles of an American Year
by Benjamin Morgan
The summer months
When you just sit around your house
In your underwear
Touching each other
Under the fan
With the AC on
The fall months
When you go out in the evening
Come home pink nose
Touching again
Like familiar leaves
Falling down
The winter months
When you can't go out because it's damn cold
The heat doesn't even work well
Touching with icy breath
Under too many covers
Not much sleep
The spring months
God dammit
not a poem
by Benjamin Morgan
I think I'm in love with someone that doesn't exist
I think I'm in love with the devil
I think I'd do anything to swim by myself
With a real big novel on my resume
Also, I would like it as a permanent badge
This summer is a cliche that rocks real hard
Nothing comes out of wormholes but hard thoughts
You can't push anything out that doesn't want to say hello
Ideas are pulled out of heady air with egotism
Thousands of people hate simple wordplay
Rambling is not writing and this is not a poem
This is not a poem
This is just words in a line
This does not even rhyme
Why do you think this is a poem?
Just because I say it is
or isn't
You know that you can think whatever
you want to think
This can be a poem or this can be a giant orgasm
Not like it is though
and that's really saying something
or is it nothing
and how do we decide
unless we all decide for ourselves
But then we're all so different that no one gets together
except those that make certain concessions
And those who won't willow waver get left
out in the tiny, little cold where no one can hear you complain
This is not a fucking poem
This is little words in a computer that no one sees or reads
I might delete this file if vague threats seem to be working
Writing is like something else I can't do well enough
Like anything I like doing or want to do
I hate eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
This is not a poem
by Benjamin Morgan
Save a place for me baby
I'm going to end up in hell
But I'm not sure what it means
To be an asshole anymore
Is it just thinking thoughts that bother you?
If I act on a thought
Does that make me an asshole?
If I just think something
Maybe even dwell on it
Does that make me an asshole?
Is what I can imagine
Or what I act upon
The true judge of moral character
Pornography Explained
by Benjamin Morgan
I've got some really messed up words and thoughts
About your firm, round apples and their stems
I can see them through your shirt
I want you to be glad that I am looking
Rip your shirt open and offer me a basket of apples
I get pretty messed up sometimes thinking
Almost all the time about being supplicated
In the computer age
It looks like every woman is horny
They all have an unquenchable thirst to service me
I want to figure out how to separate from fiction
It's too confusing sometimes to know
How easy it is to lose my virginity
Did I have a chance before
Have I turned down a girl who would fuck me
Who is even interested anyways nowadays with me
I hate that even one look or touch is an explosion
Triggers days or months of thoughts
Explicit acts to fuel my angry hands
I think they see it in my eyes and turn away in shame
One if By Phone
by Benjamin Morgan
Hey.
Are you there?
I've been breathing into the phone.
I am just trying to talk to you.
Hey, what was that?
Don't give me any of that guff.
I'm a timebomb.
I am a hotplate turned up to 10.
Hey.
Are you my lover?
I can't speak the language of your body.
I spoke mispronunciations into your ear.
Hey.
Are you still holding on?
Let go of the building ledge.
Go ahead and see if those angels catch you.
The Cycles of an American Year
by Benjamin Morgan
The summer months
When you just sit around your house
In your underwear
Touching each other
Under the fan
With the AC on
The fall months
When you go out in the evening
Come home pink nose
Touching again
Like familiar leaves
Falling down
The winter months
When you can't go out because it's damn cold
The heat doesn't even work well
Touching with icy breath
Under too many covers
Not much sleep
The spring months
God dammit
not a poem
by Benjamin Morgan
I think I'm in love with someone that doesn't exist
I think I'm in love with the devil
I think I'd do anything to swim by myself
With a real big novel on my resume
Also, I would like it as a permanent badge
This summer is a cliche that rocks real hard
Nothing comes out of wormholes but hard thoughts
You can't push anything out that doesn't want to say hello
Ideas are pulled out of heady air with egotism
Thousands of people hate simple wordplay
Rambling is not writing and this is not a poem
This is not a poem
This is just words in a line
This does not even rhyme
Why do you think this is a poem?
Just because I say it is
or isn't
You know that you can think whatever
you want to think
This can be a poem or this can be a giant orgasm
Not like it is though
and that's really saying something
or is it nothing
and how do we decide
unless we all decide for ourselves
But then we're all so different that no one gets together
except those that make certain concessions
And those who won't willow waver get left
out in the tiny, little cold where no one can hear you complain
This is not a fucking poem
This is little words in a computer that no one sees or reads
I might delete this file if vague threats seem to be working
Writing is like something else I can't do well enough
Like anything I like doing or want to do
I hate eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
This is not a poem
Contest Celebration!
To Celebrate What Blogspot Says Was My Sixtieth Post I Am Going To Write A Poem For Every Day In September. (A Contest by XII)
Tell me your dreams and all your secrets what do you want me to write down just give some topics goddamnit just do it is anyone listening fuck it who cares
topics already chosen:
firemen
bloody family members
ghostly cats
Rooftops
Keep em coming and then watch the fruits of your labor ripen with some sort of devil sex.
-XII
Tell me your dreams and all your secrets what do you want me to write down just give some topics goddamnit just do it is anyone listening fuck it who cares
topics already chosen:
firemen
bloody family members
ghostly cats
Rooftops
Keep em coming and then watch the fruits of your labor ripen with some sort of devil sex.
-XII
Saturday, August 16, 2008
If I Go To Heaven I'll Be Bored As Hell
A One Last Hosanna
By Benjamin Morgan
Somebody wants a nice hosanna
I'm gonna give 'em all of two amens
I'm gonna climb to the top of the steeple
Just to make amends
Everyone gathered round in the temple
Heard the gasp as the AC finally died
The elders all started making whooshing noises
So that the women wouldn't cry
The pastor he got up to make his sermon
He said no one will get by on just his own
He was sweating with a fervor to believe in
If only he had not been so alone
Right on the words "god has called out"
The pastor clutched his chest and fell
The people all tired and hot, mouths open
Wondered how the world had gone to hell
Somebody wants a nice hosanna
I'm gonna give 'em all of two amens
I'm gonna climb to the top of the steeple
Just to make amends
The coroner pulled out a soggy bible
Thick with the sweat of working men
He cut a cross in the pastor's chest
So that the family could see him once again
The whole congregation came around
Except for Margaret who was bitter still
They sang loud hymns to an unknown god
Waiting for the rain to hit the window sill
In the absence of rain the funeral started
On a hilltop in the heat that was unlovely
There was a new pastor with some old words
The sun set horribly and so very suddenly
Somebody wants a nice hosanna
I'm gonna give 'em all of two amens
I'm gonna climb to the top of the steeple
Just to make amends
The wife held up her hands to go to heaven
She wept onto the dirt in which he laid
She said "Bill I will come up there and meet you"
Just recommend the Lord my dying day
The last thing that the pastor ever saw
Was the white light like a mac truck blaring
He had time for just one last little thought
But he just looked up and kept staring
His last words were supposed to be poetic
His last thoughts were saved up for his wife
He cultivated hallelujahs like a madman
Waiting for the ending of his too proud life
Somebody wants a nice hosanna
I'm gonna give 'em all of two amens
I'm gonna climb to the top of the steeple
Hold out my holy hands
By Benjamin Morgan
Somebody wants a nice hosanna
I'm gonna give 'em all of two amens
I'm gonna climb to the top of the steeple
Just to make amends
Everyone gathered round in the temple
Heard the gasp as the AC finally died
The elders all started making whooshing noises
So that the women wouldn't cry
The pastor he got up to make his sermon
He said no one will get by on just his own
He was sweating with a fervor to believe in
If only he had not been so alone
Right on the words "god has called out"
The pastor clutched his chest and fell
The people all tired and hot, mouths open
Wondered how the world had gone to hell
Somebody wants a nice hosanna
I'm gonna give 'em all of two amens
I'm gonna climb to the top of the steeple
Just to make amends
The coroner pulled out a soggy bible
Thick with the sweat of working men
He cut a cross in the pastor's chest
So that the family could see him once again
The whole congregation came around
Except for Margaret who was bitter still
They sang loud hymns to an unknown god
Waiting for the rain to hit the window sill
In the absence of rain the funeral started
On a hilltop in the heat that was unlovely
There was a new pastor with some old words
The sun set horribly and so very suddenly
Somebody wants a nice hosanna
I'm gonna give 'em all of two amens
I'm gonna climb to the top of the steeple
Just to make amends
The wife held up her hands to go to heaven
She wept onto the dirt in which he laid
She said "Bill I will come up there and meet you"
Just recommend the Lord my dying day
The last thing that the pastor ever saw
Was the white light like a mac truck blaring
He had time for just one last little thought
But he just looked up and kept staring
His last words were supposed to be poetic
His last thoughts were saved up for his wife
He cultivated hallelujahs like a madman
Waiting for the ending of his too proud life
Somebody wants a nice hosanna
I'm gonna give 'em all of two amens
I'm gonna climb to the top of the steeple
Hold out my holy hands
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Watch XII Skewer Yet Another Teenage Thought Bubble
The Shit That Is My Life
By XII
Polar bears
on electric stairs
I hate my father
Hate my friends
Hope this bad time
Never ends
Because I keep my eyes
On everything
Waiting for the surprise
My torture brings
I tell every single human now
How bad I feel when I'm down
But they try to help me turn around
I tell them hold onto the crowd
Cause I'm a distant dark rebel
Cruising bruises on the planet level
Brooding in holes too deep
Frowning hard enough to weep
I wonder how Jesus cried those bloody tears
Because I've seriously been trying for years
I need some of this
I need some more
I want it all yeah
That's hardcore
By XII
Polar bears
on electric stairs
I hate my father
Hate my friends
Hope this bad time
Never ends
Because I keep my eyes
On everything
Waiting for the surprise
My torture brings
I tell every single human now
How bad I feel when I'm down
But they try to help me turn around
I tell them hold onto the crowd
Cause I'm a distant dark rebel
Cruising bruises on the planet level
Brooding in holes too deep
Frowning hard enough to weep
I wonder how Jesus cried those bloody tears
Because I've seriously been trying for years
I need some of this
I need some more
I want it all yeah
That's hardcore
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
XII is in the present and he is codified and fully in control like the switchboard captain at your latest cabana boy beach bar parade
National Box Wine
by XII
Driving hard night streets
In the god-damn dawn
Isn't all the good mice
Already taken
Mr. Sir knows it all
Down the hall he falls
But no one in my mind cave
Thinks about the steering
The cold wheel is suddenly
Upon my thrusting,
crashing body
Hard thoughts in my
firm jello reality
Time stretches the
highway always
God Boat pts. I and II
by XII
Pour down the firmament
Lord of the Sabbath men
Puke on my dresses
Sunday morning vomit
is the Great LORDS REIGN
Not the greatest
----------------------
Breaking tablet pectorals
White gloved women
Successful America
In the tye man's hand
Like a record player
Skips the all good parts
Bring back the B-I-B-L-E
So we all have
something to eat on again
I'm so starving senior
by XII
Driving hard night streets
In the god-damn dawn
Isn't all the good mice
Already taken
Mr. Sir knows it all
Down the hall he falls
But no one in my mind cave
Thinks about the steering
The cold wheel is suddenly
Upon my thrusting,
crashing body
Hard thoughts in my
firm jello reality
Time stretches the
highway always
God Boat pts. I and II
by XII
Pour down the firmament
Lord of the Sabbath men
Puke on my dresses
Sunday morning vomit
is the Great LORDS REIGN
Not the greatest
----------------------
Breaking tablet pectorals
White gloved women
Successful America
In the tye man's hand
Like a record player
Skips the all good parts
Bring back the B-I-B-L-E
So we all have
something to eat on again
I'm so starving senior
XII Speaks From the Past
I'm going to have very girl's name that I ever have sex with tattooed on my back. I'll painfully remove each one when I forget what her face looked like when she came. If I don't know her name I'll just use the name of a reality TV star. Like I wish I was society's little whipping boy. Please wipe the dust off the hieroglyphic playset. I used the plastic chisel then broke it into pieces for the drama. No one reads this. Do a man a favor whose running dry on pen and paper.
Was little Georgy Porgy just a porn store story? A failed actor with a big dick in his jeans, meeting up at orgies just to meet his common needs. Plowing into dumpsters like a trailer park full of limousines. His sweat suit came back from the dry cleaning positive for VD. Hacking back the back attack on his position concerning secular symbols in organized religion. He never knew he'd have to meet up to the director's standards saying pose like Jesus when you cum into the future fury just to please us Makes him wish for cafeterias.
-XII
Was little Georgy Porgy just a porn store story? A failed actor with a big dick in his jeans, meeting up at orgies just to meet his common needs. Plowing into dumpsters like a trailer park full of limousines. His sweat suit came back from the dry cleaning positive for VD. Hacking back the back attack on his position concerning secular symbols in organized religion. He never knew he'd have to meet up to the director's standards saying pose like Jesus when you cum into the future fury just to please us Makes him wish for cafeterias.
-XII
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